


in a moment of breathless delight

by pearypie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Realization, Subtle Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: He saw her. The street urchin girl. Dark haired, dark eyed."He notices she does not come here for food or drink, preferring to stay in her designated little corner, ignoring the sybaritic Grantaire and his Bordeaux, unaware of the charming Courfeyrac and ebullient Joly. She has certainly not come for the ABC’s secrets, for her attention is so narrow and singularly focused that she’s committed herself to solitaire. Yet Enjolras can’t help but acknowledge the painful thinness of her malnourished body, how she’s held together by rope and unrequited, unabashed love."





	

He’s seen her before—the street tramp who trailed so humbly after Marius, with her dark hair and quiet footsteps, so thin he can count the number of ribs straining against her faded gingham dress. He’s seen her. Not because she was outstanding in beauty or divine with grace—no, she is not any of those things and Enjolras, with his hard pragmatism and unrelenting devotion to the Cause, only notices her because he notices _everything._ He’s a careful man by nature and a untrusting man by nurture and Éponine Thénardier is the offspring of the two most notorious blackguards in Paris.

Of course he notices her, the silent, wide-eyed girl who seems starved for Marius’s attention or even just a smile. She speaks softly and lacks the coarse, slurred words of the other slum dwellers. It’s not unusual, Marius informed him offhandedly. “She was educated.”

The comment is vague and leaves much to be desired but from the scraps of information he overhears (casually, though, never consciously) he is brought to an unwilling awareness of the Thénardier girl. How she hovers near the staircase at every ABC meeting, gaze fixed on the honey-cinnamon of Marius’s hair, her thin lips dry and colorless but still—she beams when he speaks, hands folded together to keep from clapping out loud.

He notices she does not come here for food or drink, preferring to stay in her designated little corner, ignoring the sybaritic Grantaire and his Bordeaux, unaware of the charming Courfeyrac and ebullient Joly. She has certainly not come for the ABC’s secrets, for her attention is so narrow and singularly focused that she’s committed herself to solitaire. Yet Enjolras can’t help but acknowledge the painful thinness of her malnourished body, how she’s held together by rope and unrequited, unabashed love.

He does not say a word of this to anyone but tonight, the meeting will not contain so much rhetoric as it will confirmation. A check-in with everyone and then a speech or two from Combeferre. Enjolras knows the schedule beforehand and witnesses, as per usual, the appearance of each and every face of any importance at the cafe. It is a Thursday night and he knows Éponine will soon be in her corner, silent and unassuming, gazing at a lost Marius who treats her with the kindness that can only be derived from personal charity. 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras speaks and though the room is loud, his voice cuts a firm and clear swath, drawing the dark haired Grantaire away from his favorite haunt by the bar.

“What’s this I hear? My commander’s call? Legions, legions—a hundred to your name, let us acknowledge our position with grace. What can I do for you good sir of the ABC?” His voice is slightly slurred, tinged with the amiable derisiveness that was his due as he balanced a wine glass in one hand.

“Here.” Enjolras presses a franc into his hand. “Give this to barmaid. Bread and cheese with a side of ale.”

“Ale? And here I thought you were allergic to ale.” Grantaire is bemused and mildly surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat.”

“Tell her not to serve it until the meeting’s finished.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Grantaire polishes off the remainder of his Bordeaux and promptly pours himself another. “I don’t see why you can’t just walk to the bar yourself. It’s just across there.”

Enjolras gives him a wry smile. “You know me, Grantaire. I never step foot into a bar without reason.”

“Isn’t drink and revelry enough of a reason?”

“That’s an incentive.” _Not a reason._

 

* * *

 

The meeting concludes with a loud burst of applause; cheers echo throughout the room as voices intermingle with the clink and clang of pint glasses and wine bottles.

“Enjolras!” He turns at the sound of his name, only to witness Marius approaching him, textbooks in hand. He gives a cluttered explanation involving professors, Lamarque, and hands him a proposed draft for the building of the barricade.

He is a good man, Enjolras realizes, and thanks Marius, someone who is not quite his friend but closer than the common acquaintance. “Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” Marius confirms, side-stepping two drunken patrons before vanishing into the night.

From the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees the Thénardier girl rise to follow him but Grantaire, that bumbling, jocose rake, blockades her exit with a plate of bread and Reblochon. It is a cheese only ever served to Enjolras and made in the Swiss Alps; he is not part of the superfluous aristocracy—has distanced himself from them—but his blood still holds a shade of blue.

And a small, very small, part of himself thinks that the street girl—the Thénardier girl—might enjoy something richer than black bread and gruel.

With dictated purpose, Enjolras begins his approach, easily weaving past the crowds and clusters of people (though most move out of his way on their own—they’ve learned that superimposing on the Les Amis leader can be a dangerous inconvenience).

“It’s for you.” He hears Grantaire insist with a touch of exasperation. He holds the plate of food to her and she shrinks back, expression suspicious. “What more do you want me to do? Taste it? Darling, it’s not poisoned—we’re in public.”

“That’s enough, Grantaire.” Enjolras interrupts, taking the final step into her little corner, carefully cataloguing the little jump she exhibits before backing away, desperate to leave now that the object of her affection has gone. Unspoken silence falls over them before Enjolras raises his head, giving a slight nod of thanks to the bemused Grantaire.

“Well then, there’s a bottle of Merlot that I desperately need to consume so—“ he gives a cheeky wink at his old friend and companion, “I’ll be seeing you.” And just like that, he departs, blending into the mass of people all buzzing about in this amber hued room of wood and life.

Enjolras turns his attention to the Thénardier girl and is momentarily struck by the solemn darkness of her unwavering gaze. She blinks, rapidly—quickly—and shrinks back a little more, back pressed against the oak grained wall. “Monsieur.” She speaks softly and precisely, hands twisting in her lap.

“Eat.” Enjolras pushes the plate of food towards her. It sits plainly on a round little table in between them. “It’s yours.”

“I’ve no money to pay for it.” She says simply. “And I must be going.”

“A few minutes then.” He does not know why he’s insisting. “To keep me company. Tranquility at this cafe is a rare thing.”

She looks up, surprised. He supposes it is a strange sight—to converse so freely with a stranger who makes a living deceiving those around her. “I…I haven’t anything you might want.” She whispers, peering up at him through unevenly cut bangs. “If—if you want—“

“No.” Enjolras takes a step closer, moving around the table. “This is nothing so heinous. Merely companionable silence.”

“May I not speak then?” She inquires and Enjolras bites his tongue before he notices the dimple on her left cheek.

_How does one get a dimple on a face so thin?_

But her smile is enough though he does not smile back—has never been one for useless emotion though he is glad she feels a touch more at ease. “If you wish it.” He allows. “I’ve lived through the bellows of Grantaire and the drunken soliloquies of sailors. Whatever you have to say must be a prayer in comparison.”

“I’ve never learned the Bible.” She admits, tentatively reaching out and then—retracts her hand.

Enjolras, never one for hesitation, easily plucks up a small loaf of bread, tearing it clean in two. “You never attended mass?” He holds out one half to her. 

She smiles, a little wider this time. “When I was very young I did.” She takes the bread from him, hands fragile but not dirtied, and opens her mouth to say thanks.

“I did as well.” He interrupts her, purposely steering this peculiar conversation to something less wounded. “The grand cathedrals and basilicas, all stained glass and stylized naves.” He does not want her thanks.

“Naves…” she trails off, placing one small bite of bread in her mouth. “Are those—are those the long corridors?”

“The central isle of the basilica.” He responds succinctly.

“What church did it belong to?”

He likes how she does not ask about his parents or their mansion or the past he prefers to keep quiet.

“The one of kings and bishops.” There is a faint teasing lilt in his voice, almost undetectable, but she hears it—she hears it and she beams brightly.

“Do you study it then? Churches and naves and stone?”

_Architecture._

“Once.” He admits. “But it was never my intended focus.” It had been an interest of his since he was old enough to remember. “And you?” Enjolras continues, wondering why he continues this charade. “What has kept you awake at night?” 

“Would you mind if I answered in a cliche?” She eyes the cheese and then glances back to Enjolras.

He says nothing as she picks up the little silver knife and swipes a bit of Reblochon on her little white loaf. Slowly, she brings bread and cheese to her mouth and bites into it—a very small, pointed bite—and her eyes flutter close, a soft sigh escapes her lips. Enjolras watches as she chews, savoring the cheese’s rich, creamy texture and the salty-sour softness of the housemate bread. She is careful not to take too long, swallowing her bit of food with delicate pleasure.

“Merci.” She opens her eyes, cacao brown and framed with fluttering dark lashes. “Merci…”

“Enjolras.” His answer is blank and unemotional, for he has long since learned to ignore the beatings of his all too human heart. Grantaire once accused him of being a machine made man but in this moment, with a strange warmth blooming in his chest and a cognizance that is focused solely on this bird-thin young woman, Enjolras could convince even eremites of love.

Of emotion.

“Enjolras.” She says his name, the syllables smooth on the tip of her tongue. “Merci, Enjolras.”

“And you?”

“Ah, and here I thought you knew everyone’s name.” She smiles, a hint of life disguising—for a too brief moment—the chaos surrounding them and the ragged hemline of her dirtied dress.

“I remember those that are worth remembering.”

Her smile wavers, a little sadly perhaps, but she pushes it away and beams even brighter. “Éponine. Je m’appelle Éponine—et c’est tout.” 

“Éponine.”

She smiles, that dimple appearing on her left cheek again. “Yes.”

It is a beautiful circumstance, made more beautiful perhaps but the fragility of it all. In truth, Enjolras has never focused on the particulars of _what could be,_ preferring the stability of _what needs to be._ Yet in this moment, with her unassuming smile and singular name, Enjolras decides he will remember her, today and tomorrow. His reasons are not poetic and he can produce no verse that will adequately express the turmoil of his sentiments, and yet.

And _yet._

She is Éponine and he is Enjolras and here they are, in a shaded corner of a sepia cafe, life bursting around them as they stand there, face to face, silent in their contemplation of one another.

She is Éponine and he is Enjolras and, for now, that is all there needs to be.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The church Enjolras mentions is the Notre Dame Cathedral, completed in 1345 for the Bishop of Paris. 
> 
> \- et c’est tout = and that’s all 
> 
> A/N: My first ever Les Mis fanfic! This is based solely on the film version starring Samantha Barks as Éponine and Aaron Tveit as Enjolras. I apologize for any inaccuracies but, I just couldn't help writing this XD 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated! :)


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